


Through the Smoke

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, And Let Them Drive Us Straight Off the Cliff Every Time, And Now They’re Banging in Just One Night, Don't Worry Though They're Still Messes, F/M, Fake News - Freeform, Flynn is Not a Get His Shit Together in Two Days Kind of Guy, Frankly the Timeline is Bugging Me, I Am Not in the Driver's Seat Here, I Don’t Know What the Fuck Happened to the Timeline Here, I Just Throw My Hands in the Air, M/M, Multi, So Suspend Your Disbelief on That, Usually I Have to Time Skip to Keep it From Taking Over 50k to Get These Idiots Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 16:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19089007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: Welcome to the early ‘30s and the jazz club The Lifeboat, a speakeasy and a good place to grab a nightcap and a look at the club’s star, singer Lucy Preston. Embittered private detective Garcia Flynn would be the last person to admit he’s smitten with her, but he still stops by every night—or could that be because he’s found a rather damning diary of hers? Homicide detective Wyatt Logan stops by a lot too—or that could be to find out why his partner was gunned down just outside the club’s door. And nobody seems to know where Lucy’s double act and younger sister Amy Preston is.Three lost individuals are going to have to find a way to trust each other—or successfully play each other—before they all end up the next mysterious disappearance.





	Through the Smoke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lostinspiration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinspiration/gifts).



_I knew the dame was trouble from the first minute she walked in. A brunette, as they always seemed to be, with sharp eyes and—_

“Jiya, what have I told you about reading that pulp fiction?” Flynn asked as he walked in, startling his secretary.

“That it’ll rot my brain?” Jiya Marri replied cheerfully.

In another, kinder world, Flynn was certain that Jiya could go far. She had a mind like a steel trap and a good gut instinct, and she didn’t suffer fools. But this wasn’t a particularly kind world, at least not to the children of non-white immigrants, and so Jiya was working for him.

He hoped to at least take enough cases to pay her this month. She’d thought she was keeping her second job as a late-night cocktail waitress secret from him, but he’d found out within the first couple of weeks.

“Any news?”

“For us? No.” Jiya slid the paper towards him. “For the city, yeah.” She cleared her throat and recited. “Dapper Cop Gunned Down Outside Singing Lounge. Poor bastard.”

“Watch your language,” Flynn said mildly as he picked up the paper. Hmm. Apparently the police commissioner, Cahill, said it was gang violence, possibly out of Chinatown.

If you asked Flynn, the trouble with San Francisco wasn’t coming out of Chinatown, but from police headquarters.

“Oh, and this came for you,” Jiya said, as if she’d just remembered. “In the mail. Package.”

Flynn took the small parcel from her. It was wrapped in brown paper and had a return address of São Paulo.

Who the hell could be sending him something from Brazil? He didn’t know anyone south of the border.

In fact he didn’t know anyone, period.

“I’ll be in my office,” Flynn said, walking through to the bigger room behind the reception area. It wasn’t fancy by any means, just a tiny two-room apartment above the Hindu grocery store and restaurant, and it was in sore need of cleaning up and a new paint job, but Denise and Michelle let him have it at a good rate.

Flynn read the paper first, saving the package for last. “…Jiya?”

“Yeah?”

“You failed to mention the singing lounge this poor sucker was gunned in front of is where you work.”

“Oops? Did I forget that?”

Flynn frowned as he read that the story had been written by a _K. Drummond_. Huh. Usually the front-page police-type news was reported on by a _J. Logan_.

“If I offer to walk you to and from work, are you going to break my hand?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Jiya replied. “I carry a knife, Flynn, I can handle myself. I got along fine on my own before I met you.”

“All right.”

Dave Baumgardner, apparently a fine and upstanding enforcer of the law, left behind no close relatives. Yeah, fine and upstanding. Right. And Flynn was straight. Everyone knew that you couldn’t trust a cop. Especially ones that were gunned down outside of a bar that had an owner blatantly flaunting Prohibition and serving moonshine using cocktail waitresses.

“I mean,” Jiya continued as Flynn set the paper aside and opened the package, “if you need escorting me to be your excuse to come to the club and see that lovely Miss Preston perform again…”

“I am not going to the club to be one of Lucy Preston’s gaping hangers-on.”

“Ah-ha!” Jiya appeared in the doorway, triumph all over her face. “I never said _which_ Miss Preston it was, _you_ assumed I meant Lucy.”

“I think Amy Preston is a trifle young for me, she’s not even thirty.”

“I’m not even thirty.”

“I rest my case.” Flynn finished opening the package and out slid…

A journal?

It was a very nice one, bound in leather, and apparently quite well used judging by the worn look about it. Flynn flipped it open to the first page.

 _If found, please return to Lucy Preston_.

Flynn stared. This was—of all people, of all the people in the entire world, he got the journal of the woman he’d been valiantly fighting a crush on for months.

And it came from Brazil?

Was Lucy in Brazil? If so, how did she end up there? And why was she sending him her journal?

Flynn sighed. “All right, Jiya, looks like I’m escorting you to The Lifeboat after all.”

 

* * *

 

Wyatt was never going to forgive himself.

 _I just want to hear her opening number,_ he’d told Dave. _Just the one, okay? Then we’ll get right back on the beat. It’ll be fine._

Yeah. Fine. He could’ve gone and seen Lucy Preston perform on any other night of the week, but no, he’d just had to do it that night. He’d just had to listen to her sing _You Made Me Love You_.

And while he’d been doing that, his partner, the best damn police officer Wyatt knew, had gotten gunned down in front of the club.

It couldn’t be gang violence, or Chinese immigrants. He didn’t care what the commissioner said. And he sure as hell didn’t care for his best friend’s death being used as an excuse to crack down on Chinatown while the real killer was still out roaming the streets.

Dave had been clean. He never would’ve gotten involved in that gang nonsense, or any other kind of nonsense.

So who had gunned him down, and why?

Normally Wyatt would’ve asked Jess—but Jess had served him divorce papers and then disappeared to South America of all godforsaken places with barely an explanation.

 _It’s just better this way,_ she’d said.

He’d gotten a postcard from her about a week ago, from São Paulo. _I’m safe and doing well. I’m sorry. We weren’t working out and I had to get away. I can’t tell you more than that but I promise it’s for the best. You’ll always be my dearest friend._

What the hell was all that supposed to mean?

He’d lost his wife, and his best friend was dead so he couldn’t ask his best friend for help on figuring out how the hell they’d gone from a slightly strained marriage to a divorce and a disappearance in less than a month. His best friend was dead, and his investigative reporter wife had disappeared, so he couldn’t ask her to help him figure out what had happened and why said best friend had been murdered.

It was all up to him, now. Alone.

Dammit, he needed a drink.

 

* * *

 

Lucy slid into Mason’s office, her stomach in knots.

It had been in knots for three days.

Connor Mason, owner of The Lifeboat and the man who’d taken a chance on Lucy and Amy, looked up from his desk. “Ah, Lucy. Any luck?”

She shook her head, struggling to keep her lip from wobbling. “I—I don’t understand, Connor, you know how careful she is—”

“My dear, you and I both know that Amy has a wild streak in her.”

“But not like this!” Lucy burst out. “She wouldn’t just—she’s not the type—she wouldn’t leave me. All we have is each other. She would never leave me.”

Mason gestured for her to sit down and poured her a drink. “You need a stiff whisky my dear.”

“I need my sister back.”

Mason sighed, handed her the drink, and then picked up the newspaper from his desk. “I don’t suppose you’ve read this?”

He held it out to her. Lucy’s eyes got wide as she read the headline. “Jesus Christ, it keeps getting worse.”

“The cops are all dirty,” Mason said, taking the paper back and tossing it onto his desk. “I’d like you to have an escort alone at night. I’ve asked all my other female employees if they can do the same—and Rufus, since, well.” Mason gestured at his face.

Both Mason and Rufus were black—not the safest thing to be at the best of times.

“I can handle myself,” Lucy said.

Mason’s eyes grew dark and sad. “I’m sure Amy has often said the same thing.”

Lucy clutched her glass so hard she thought she might shatter the glass into a million painful shards. At least then it would match how she felt inside. “Amy isn’t dead. She isn’t. I would know it.”

“How?”

“I would—I would feel it.” Lucy nodded vehemently. “I know I would.”

“And how do you plan to go about finding her?” Mason asked, sitting on the edge of his desk.

Lucy downed the rest of her drink. “Jiya, your waitress, she works for a private detective. I’ll go to him.”

“And be charged money you can’t afford so a washed-up drunk past his prime can stumble around and make an even bigger mess of things?”

“Jiya works for him. He has to be good. Jiya wouldn’t stand for anything less.” Lucy stood up, setting her drink on the desk. “My sister is out there, Connor, and I’m going to find her.”

 

* * *

 

Flynn was all set to go the club that night with Jiya. He could do this. His track record with people to whom he was attracted was, admittedly, a bad one. There was the boy he’d gone to war with, the one he’d shared secret touches and whispered promises in the trenches with before German shrapnel had gotten him, and then there was Lorena, who he’d spent a good two years struggling to ask out before she finally took matters into her own hands.

Since Lorena… since Iris, his baby girl… he hadn’t looked at anyone. Hadn’t wanted to look.

Not until Lucy.

He’d seen her perform when he’d stopped by the club to see Jiya’s new job, to make sure Jiya was okay. There were plenty of places where the clientele would pinch and catcall the waitresses, and he wanted to make sure Jiya wasn’t putting up with bullshit for the sake of a steady paycheck.

And then this gorgeous brunette had walked on stage. All sharp angles, wearing a daring burgundy dress with a leg slit up to her thigh, her dark hair teased into a mess of curls. She’d worn matching red opera gloves, the kind that ran all the way up to her elbows, and a smirk that had pinned Flynn to the spot.

“Let’s start things off with a classic,” she’d said. “ _I Wished on the Moon for You_.”

The band had struck up, and Flynn had—to his embarrassment and shame—completely forgotten about Jiya and everything else until the song was over. The woman sang like she was made for it, was completely unself-conscious as her voice soared and got soft by turns, and her eyes had glittered as though she was singing just for one person, some invisible lover nobody else could see. It was intimate, powerful, transfixing.

“Who is that?” Flynn had asked Jiya the next day. “Who was singing at the club last night? The opening act.”

“That’s Lucy Preston,” Jiya had informed him. “She sings with her younger sister Amy. They do duets and will switch off. They’re the club favorites.”

Flynn had struggled not to go back so many times, to keep his distance, but sometimes he just couldn’t resist and would find himself sitting at the far end of the bar, out of sight, drinking Lucy in until his heart ached.

But it was fine. He didn’t really know this Lucy. He knew the performances, but those weren’t really her. It created a false sense of intimacy. He knew how that all worked—he’d done a bit of dabbling on the stage himself, had gotten to play the title character in _Hamlet_ —but then the war had hit and all dreams of the stage had gone out the window. Lorena and Iris had been his new dream.

Now all that was gone too.

The point was, he didn’t know Lucy, and he wouldn’t presume to know her. He would ask her kindly and directly if this was truly her journal, and if so, why she had sent it to him—or who else had sent it, if not her.

That is, if she was even still at the club.

He was practicing what to say while Jiya was out to lunch, pacing his office, when he heard the front door open.

“Hello?” Hand on the gun at his waist out of habit, he walked in—and froze.

Lucy Preston herself was sitting at Jiya’s desk.

She was wearing a powder blue dress suit, neatly tailored, with a short skirt that had a slit that… um, yes, well. Yes.

“What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here? Show a little leg?”

Flynn raised an eyebrow. “Show any more and you’ll be indecent.”

Lucy placed her ankle on the edge of the desk, demonstrating her flexibility. “Joke’s on you fella, I’m already indecent.”

Holy God, he’d exchanged a dozen words with her and he was already in trouble. “Miss Preston…”

Lucy put her other leg up on the desk. “Oh, so you do know me. I wondered. Jiya’s a darling girl, isn’t she?”

The more she spoke, the more Flynn sensed something else lurking underneath her devil-may-care, sultry attitude. A vulnerability that she was trying desperately to shield. “You know, most of my customers knock first.”

“The door was open.”

“Why don’t I get you a drink and you can stop trying for cheap seductive shots and tell me why you’re really here?” Flynn snapped, feeling overwhelmed and wrong-footed.

A flash of hurt crossed Lucy’s face and she took her legs off the desk. “Very well.” She stood up. “I need to locate a missing person. I have a little money set aside, I can pay you what you’re worth.”

Flynn suspected that was supposed to be an insult. “What, your latest lover run off on you?” He had no doubt that someone like Lucy had a whole bevy of men at her beck and call.

Lucy’s eyes flashed. “Reports of my being a fallen woman are greatly exaggerated, Mr. Sunday Mass, and I’d thank you not to go making assumptions about me simply because I’m a lounge singer.”

That was… a fair rebuttal. Flynn cleared his throat. “Yes. Well then. Who do you want me to find?”

Lucy swallowed and Flynn saw that she was struggling to keep her composure. “My sister, Amy. She disappeared three days ago. She’d been running late from the post office—she had to mail a postcard—and so I went on and did the first song without her. She was supposed to join me by the time I finished, but she never showed up. I had to perform all night alone, and I thought, well, maybe she had a headache or something. But she wasn’t at home. She wasn’t anywhere. I know that people can get foolish ideas and go running off somewhere for no good reason, but Amy wasn’t like that. She’s sensible. I’m all the family she has, she wouldn’t have left of her own free will, I know it.”

Flynn had, in his time, had to gently explain to plenty of parents that their precious angelic virginal son or daughter was not quite so, well, precious or angelic or virginal as they’d led their parents to believe. He’d tracked down many a young person who’d run off, either with a beau or to hitchhike or see the world or pursue a career in film or any number of things. The ones who were fleeing abusive households, he helped, and he told the parents a fake story. The ones who were just being, well, young… he told the parents the truth and tried to council on how to reconcile after such a betrayal.

But Lucy didn’t strike him as someone blind to the faults of their family. And he’d seen Amy Preston perform, had heard her laughing with Jiya, had watched her drinking arm in arm with her sister. She’d seemed a bright, energetic, and intelligent young thing, and she’d clearly been as devoted to Lucy as Lucy was to her.

In this case, then, he was inclined to agree with Lucy. Amy did not go missing of her own free will.

“I don’t like asking for help,” Lucy admitted, and Flynn noticed her hands fluttering up to touch at a gold locket hanging around her neck. “But I can’t trust the cops. Nobody in this city can. And Jiya trusts you. So I thought…”

The brash façade was entirely gone now, and it was just a woman scared for her sister, for her family.

Flynn could relate.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you,” Lucy burst out in a rush. She got up onto her toes and kissed his cheek, giving Flynn a faint whiff of jasmine. “Thank you!”

It wasn’t until after she left that Flynn realized—he’d never told her about the journal.

 

* * *

 

Wyatt stopped by the Lifeboat after his shift ended that night. He hadn’t been assigned a new partner yet, thank fuck, so he didn’t have to shake off a tail. Half the force drank like fish but he didn’t need anyone seeing him at the same club where Dave had died, asking questions.

The bartender, Rufus, knew Wyatt from when he’d stop by to hear Miss Preston singing. Rufus nodded as Wyatt sat down. “Logan.”

“Carlin. Hey, you weren’t working the night that cop was gunned down, were you?”

Rufus immediately went stiff. Wyatt held up a hand. “Whoa, I’m not—this isn’t in—I’m not on the clock. He was my buddy.”

Rufus relaxed a little. “Might be that I was working that night, yeah.”

Wyatt glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Look, man, I’m not trying to get you in trouble. Or anyone else. But that was my best friend. And he was straight as an arrow. I know—I know that the other cops, we ain’t so great. But Dave actually believed in all that serve and protect crap. He wouldn’t get involved in a gang.”

Rufus inclined his head.

“I’m just…” Wyatt sighed. “Look, my wife just left me, and now my best friend’s dead. I’d like to know what the hell happened to him. Whoever did it.”

Rufus poured a drink. “Look. The night it happened, three of us dragged… Dave, you said his name was? We dragged him inside to try and, I don’t know, help somehow. Not that there was much we could do. It was me, and a local kid, Mark, and then some—I don’t know, some other person.”

“Some other person?”

“Yeah. I don’t know him, he had a hat jammed down over his eyes and a coat with the collar turned up. Young, though, from his voice, seemed kind of panicky.”

“And what about this kid…”

“Mark? Oh, good kid. His parents own a local shop, his mother’s from India. Real good kid, studies hard.”

“No connections…”

“None. His moms would kill him.”

Wyatt blinked. “Did you say…”

“Thanks, Rufus,” a tall, dark-haired man said, stealing the drink from Rufus’s hand.

“That was mine,” Wyatt informed him.

The man looked at him and—uh. Um. Wow. The guy should’ve been in the pictures, holy shit.

“I’ll buy your next round then,” the man shot back, quickly downing the drink and setting it back down onto the counter.

Wyatt scowled at him. “I’m trying to conduct an investigation here.”

“Oh, what a coincidence, so am I.” The man smirked at him and Wyatt’s insides turned to hot mush.

“Flynn, play nice, please,” Rufus said, sounding weary.

“Flynn? Garcia Flynn?” Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “You’re that ex-cop, the one who killed his family.”

The response was instantaneous, Flynn’s voice a dangerous growl. “I did _not_ kill them.”

“Sure sounded like you did.”

“And you believe the police report?” Flynn snorted. “I was asked to look into a report by a friend, and in the process I found a name—one name—Rittenhouse, and I asked my friend about it. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the middle of the night to my wife saying our little girl’s coughing, she’s going to check on her.”

Rufus, who had clearly heard this story before, kept a respectful silence, supposedly counting glasses.

“We call them silencers,” Flynn said, his voice like he’d gargled glass, “but they aren’t that silent. Not when it’s two shots in the night killing your family. I barely got out alive. And Rittenhouse, whoever they are—they seem content to let me rot as a private eye.”

Wyatt couldn’t argue that there were fishy things going on in the police department. But at the same time… “You know Rufus. You come here frequently?”

“Are you trying to pick me up?”

“I’m wondering if you, a noted cop hater, were the one who gunned down my partner.”

“Baumgardner?” Flynn snorted. “Y’know, I was thinking you’d killed him. Things were on the rocks with that wife of yours, or so everyone tells me. Did Baumgardner swoop in, lend a sympathetic ear? A sympathetic arm, a sympathetic bed?”

Wyatt could feel his face burning. “Jess wouldn’t do that, and neither would Dave.”

“Yet one’s dead and one’s apparently vanished.” Flynn cocked an eyebrow.

“What’s your deal anyway? Why would you care unless you were the one who killed him?” Wyatt leaned in, which meant he got a lungful of Flynn’s scent—leather and whiskey. It made the world tilt.

“I’m actually here about another case,” Flynn replied. “But seeing as my missing person disappeared the same night your buddy was gunned down, thought I’d ask a couple questions.”

“What.” Wyatt rolled his eyes. “Just because you’re all handsome and mysterious you think you can just waltz in and get whatever you want?”

“Don’t,” Flynn growled, “make me put you over my knee.”

“I’m just gonna go… deal with the customers on the other end of the bar…” Rufus muttered, suiting the action to the word.

Flynn took a step to his left, Wyatt’s right, putting his hand on the other side of Wyatt—pinning Wyatt to the bar. They were practically chest to chest, and oh fuck, Wyatt felt like he couldn’t breathe, like breathing was dangerous.

“How do I know you aren’t dirty?” Flynn asked. “Sniffing around here, your partner dead, wife missing… how do I know you aren’t just another dirty cop?”

“And how do I know you’re not another washed up drunk asshole?” Wyatt said, his voice coming out rough and breathless, practically a whisper. “I’m here to find out what happened to my friend. I didn’t kill him. Now let me go.”

Flynn didn’t move an inch. “You want to go, go.”

Wyatt glared at him. He shoved lightly at Flynn’s chest, which was like shoving at a rock.

A very warm rock.

 _Fuck_.

Flynn pushed away from the bar and gave Wyatt a sarcastic bow.

Wyatt stormed off, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks and sliding down his spine.

 

* * *

 

Lucy sank onto her chair in front of her dressing room mirror. She looked sophisticated, ready to take on the world.

She felt like she was falling apart.

At least everyone had enjoyed the show. That was what mattered. If people were wondering what had happened to her sister, they’d yet to ask her.

A soft knock sounded on the door. “Miss Preston?”

She recognized the accent. “Come in.”

Garcia Flynn entered, closing the door behind him. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” He looked… softer, somehow, than she remembered. “You did well in the show tonight.”

Lucy realized his hand was behind his back, and she stiffened—and then he brought it out, and she saw that he had a small box of chocolates.

“I figured you get a lot of flowers, and… Jiya said you and Amy liked the chocolate covered strawberries. I thought… it might… be good to be reminded of her.”

Flynn looked earnest, even nervous, and Lucy took the box and gently set it on her makeup table. “Are you bringing me this because you have—bad news?” Her heart climbed steadily into her throat, choking her.

“No!” Flynn seemed alarmed that his gift had been received in this manner. “No, no, I only—I wanted to—you gave a good show. I liked your rendition of _I Get a Kick Out of You_.”

Lucy eyed him, wary. “You liked my singing.”

“I—well—it was—I’m sorry, would you prefer I said you were pitchy?”

“I was _pitchy_?”

“You weren’t!” Flynn looked like he wanted to throw himself out the nearest window. “I just—I wanted to—apologize, all right? For what I said. Earlier. I was. Yes.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow. “You sure know how to compliment a woman.”

Flynn grimaced. “I’ve been told I need work in that department. By my, ah, wife.”

Oh. He had a wife. Lucy wondered why that disappointed her.

Flynn cleared his throat. “She was always saying things like that.”

“…was?”

“She—died. She was murdered. Along with my little girl.”

“Oh. I’m—I’m so sorry.”

Flynn shrugged. “I know something of loss, that’s all.”

“So Amy _is_ dead?”

“I don’t know!” Flynn ran a hand through his hair. “When I thought about meeting you this is not how I wanted it to go,” he added in an aggrieved mutter.

“You wanted to meet me?”

“I—tonight, when I met you tonight,” Flynn snapped.

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Well if my sister isn’t dead and you aren’t here to give me condolences, then why are you here?”

He pulled something out of his pocket. “I also wanted… I wanted to give you this, and ask you about it.”

Lucy looked down—and felt her throat constricting. It was like she’d been punched in the sternum.

“That’s my journal.”

Flynn held it out to her and Lucy took it, her fingers trembling as she opened the well-worn leather cover to check—but she already knew. “My mother gave me this.”

“Care to explain how it got to me by post? From São Paulo?”

Lucy looked up at him. “What? No. No, this should be—it should be in my apartment, it… no. Who would send it to you?”

“And why to me?” Flynn sat down on her chaise lounge.

Lucy swallowed, looking down at the journal. “I… I know why it was to you. Have you—have you read it?”

Flynn shook his head. “I skimmed, a little, but—until I knew why it was given to me—”

Lucy ran her hand over the leather cover. “Your family was targeted, you were targeted, because you were looking into something called Rittenhouse.”

Flynn started in surprise. “How—”

“My birth father is Commissioner Cahill. My mother is Carol Preston.”

Flynn’s eye went wide and dark. Everyone knew Carol Preston. Married to the now-deceased Henry Wallace, Carol was a socialite of the highest order, the richest woman in the city.

Lucy traced designs over the journal with her finger. “Growing up, I thought my adoptive father was my birth father. It wasn’t until a few years ago I learned Mother had an affair. She wanted to—to induct me to follow in her footsteps, to marry this—this society man—a very nice man, named Noah, a good man I think, but—she wanted me to use his wealth and connections to aid Rittenhouse.”

She forced herself to look up at Flynn. “You see—Rittenhouse is the name of a small group of people. Originally a gentleman’s club, but Mother worked her way in. There’s another woman in there now as well, you might know her, she’s a lieutenant in the police. Emma Whitmore.”

Flynn’s brow darkened. “Whitmore.”

“Yes. You know her, ace?”

Flynn scrubbed a hand across his face. “Yeah, I know her. I trusted her. She’s the one I told about finding that name, Rittenhouse.”

…oh fuck.

“I see we have a common enemy, then. How convenient.” Lucy looked down at the journal. “And you promise that you got this the way that you said you did? You’re not trying to take the mickey out on me, are you? Because I warn you, I keep a pearl handled pistol and it isn’t for show and tell.” She couldn’t resist a smirk, falling back into old habits. “That’s what my outfits are for.”

Lucy had learned long ago that men wanted one thing from her. If that meant she had to flirt and appear seductive to get what she wanted, then fine. She could play that game.

Flynn, however, ignored her comment. “I’m serious. I don’t know who would send me that journal, but they must know that we both have reason to hate Rittenhouse.”

“You were in the police force once, could it be someone there?”

“I didn’t exactly leave any friends behind. The world thinks I murdered my wife and daughter, there’s just not enough proof to arrest me. Why do you think Jiya’s got to take a job here? Clients don’t want to hire a murderer.”

“Well I’m hiring you. And I’m paying you good money, too.” Lucy paused. “You don’t think… whoever sent you the journal…”

“Did something to your sister?” Flynn shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll pursue that.” He stood up. “I should get back on that. If this is Rittenhouse—if your mother—I’m guessing she’s not fond of your career choice.”

“Not in the slightest. This…” Lucy tapped the journal. “This was my collateral. This keeps Amy and me safe. Mother tries to come after us, I publish what’s in here. Amy said she had a friend in the papers.”

“Well that journal was clearly out of your possession long enough to get to São Paulo and back here to me,” Flynn pointed out. “Maybe your mother or Cahill or someone else in Rittenhouse hired somebody to steal it, so your mother felt safe in taking your sister.”

Lucy’s blood ran cold. “My sister can’t be in their hands. She—she can’t.” She stood up. “I won’t let them hurt her, I _won’t_ —”

Flynn seemed to have realized his error and his hands jerked in the air, like he wanted to reach for her but was stopping himself. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, looking like a deer in the headlights. “Miss Preston—if your mother, if Rittenhouse, does have your sister. I promise you. I will get her out. I will get her safe.”

Lucy kept a stranglehold on her emotions, drawing herself up. She would not cry. She wouldn’t. “See that you do, Mr. Flynn. She’s all I’ve got in the world.”

Flynn looked her up and down, like he was thinking of saying something, then gave what Lucy could only describe as a bow and left.

 

* * *

 

Wyatt stepped out into the back alley behind the Lifeboat, growling to himself.

So far, nobody could admit to being the third man who’d helped Dave in his dying moments, nor had anyone known who that third man might be. But dammit, people didn’t just disappear into thin air! They didn’t just—

“Oh, hey Rufus.”

The bartender nodded as he stepped out of the back door, carrying some crates holding empty liquor bottles. “Hey.”

“Need a hand?”

“Thanks.”

He helped carry the stuff over to the dumpster—

“I’d be a good princess and come home to Mommy if you know what’s good for you.”

Wyatt froze. So did Rufus beside him.

“You can tell my mother and whoever else you’re reporting to that they can stick their offer right up their ass.” Lucy, that was Lucy—sounding like a snarling cat. “And you can tell them to let Amy go, or I’ll go into city hall myself and I’ll shoot them all dead.”

“My, my, those are very dangerous words, princess.” Wyatt didn’t recognize this voice, just that it belonged to a woman. “And what’s all this about Amy?”

“Don’t play coy with me. Tell Mother to let her go.”

Wyatt looked at Rufus, who nodded. They started to creep around the dumpster, poking their heads around to see what the trouble was…

The back door behind them opened and Wyatt turned in time to see Flynn exit. “Hey Ru—”

Everyone froze for a second, suspended in time—the other woman and Lucy realizing they weren’t alone, Rufus and Wyatt realizing that they were caught eavesdropping, Flynn seeing all four of them and realizing, too late, that he’d put his foot in it.

The other woman, a tall redhead, whipped out a gun and fired just as Wyatt yelled, “duck!”

Rufus collapsed against the dumpster with a groan. Lucy screamed, and Flynn started running.

Wyatt grabbed Rufus, pressing his hands to the wound. “You’re okay, you’re going to be okay.” Shit.

“You two-faced evil lying spineless cold hearted—” Lucy burst out, chasing after the woman. More gunshots fired, and then Flynn was grabbing Lucy around the middle as Lucy continued to swear and shriek curses.

“Whoa there,  _mali tigriću_ ,” Flynn said, dragging Lucy back and taking a small, pearl-handled pistol from her.

“I’ll rip her goddamn face off, and her heart right out of her chest,” Lucy snarled.

“A little help here!” Wyatt yelled. “We’ve got a man down!”

Lucy and Flynn hurried over. “Oh, Rufus,” Lucy said, pulling out a handkerchief and dabbing at the sweat on his forehead. She took his hand. “Squeeze for me, okay? We’ll get you right.”

“We need to get him inside,” Wyatt said quickly to Flynn, who nodded.

“It’s my fault, she was here for me,” Lucy said. “Don’t worry Rufus, you’ll be all right.”

Flynn looked at Wyatt, who nodded. “Through and through,” he whispered.

Rufus was going to make it, but he was not going to like the next few hours.

 

* * *

 

Flynn got Lucy some water, ignoring her request for a stiff drink, and then went into her dressing room to check on Rufus.

He was lying on the couch, Mason pacing back and forth, Jiya sitting on the edge and holding Rufus’s hand.

“How’s the patient?” Flynn asked.

“Cranky,” Jiya replied, but she didn’t take her eyes off Rufus’s face. “But he’ll do as he’s told if he wants to take me out dancing on Friday.”

“If I’d known all I had to do to get you to say you liked me was get myself shot, I would’ve done it ages ago,” Rufus grumbled.

“Or you could have asked me out like a normal person,” Jiya replied.

Flynn could see her hand trembling where it held onto Rufus’s. “If he’s well enough to complain about being an invalid, then he’s going to be fine,” Flynn assured her, resting his hand on her shoulder.

Jiya nodded, still staring at Rufus, who gave her a brave smile in return.

“Was that the same person who shot up Mr. Baumgardner?” Mason asked, turning to Flynn.

“The cop?” That was the guy Wyatt was asking about.

“Yes. Rufus here was one of the three people who was on the scene, got the poor man in here as he died. The second one is Mark, you know him, Denise and Michelle’s boy. The third person we can’t find. Could be she took care of that person and now she’s after Rufus.”

“I thought she was aiming for Wyatt,” Flynn replied.

Unless… Rittenhouse operated inside the police. When Flynn had found out about them, they’d tried to kill him and his family, and had only decided to let him live when they saw his descent into disgrace and depression. Did Baumgardner have any family? If he didn’t…

“Excuse me.” Flynn nodded, heading out of the room.

Lucy and Wyatt were standing in the front of the club, talking quietly, standing only inches apart. Flynn’s heart did an odd stutter. The idea of the two of them, the image of them, didn’t hurt him in the expected way. More like… it made him feel left out. Like he wanted to step in and be a part of that picture as well, rather than coming in to replace one of them.

“Logan.”

Wyatt looked up, his cheeks darkening when he saw Flynn. He looked good, blushing. “Yeah?”

“I need to ask you about Baumgardner.”

Wyatt’s eyes focused on something behind Flynn—and he lunged forward, shoving Flynn against the concrete wall of the club—as fire erupted in Flynn’s shoulder, burning, obviously not the part of his body that the bullet was supposed to have hit.

A sharpshooter.

Lucy lunged, faster than Flynn thought possible, grabbing his gun from his waist and turning and firing. One, two, three, four, five, six. She emptied the clip, her face a hard mask of fury, not even a sound coming out of her as she pulled the trigger over and over until the gun clicked uselessly, out of bullets.

Her arms collapsed, like the weight of the gun was too heavy, and she let out a hysterical sob.

Wyatt let go of Flynn, grabbing his own gun and flicking off the safety, moving to see who it was—if Lucy had gotten him or not.

Flynn ignored the warm trickle of blood sliding down his shoulder and grabbed Lucy, taking the gun from her just as her knees gave out.

“We were supposed to be safe,” she whispered. “We were supposed to be safe, and now—now everyone around us is dying, it’s my family, it’s my fault—”

“Jesus Christ,” Flynn heard Wyatt say.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered to Lucy, holding onto her and ignoring the pain in his arm. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

“I can’t,” she sobbed. “Flynn, I can’t, I can’t… I can’t…”

Wyatt returned, staring at Lucy. “All six hit,” he said.

“Did you recognize the man?”

Wyatt nodded. “Commissioner’s assistant, Nicholas Keynes.”

Well, fuck.

 

* * *

 

The dark blonde waited nervously on the airstrip. She looked around with an anxious air, biting her lip occasionally, her dark eyes searching for someone.

“Darling!”

The girl turned, and relief flooded her face. “I was—I was afraid—”

“That I wouldn’t come?” The other blonde, older, mid-thirties to the younger woman’s late twenties, hurried over. She had a slightly upturned nose and a strong figure with eyes that held mischief in their depths. “Never, darling.”

The two embraced tightly, and the older woman scattered kisses all over the hair and face of her companion. “It’s all right now, darling. You’re safe. I’m getting it all sorted.”

“I hope so. I left—I just abandoned—”

“Shh. Shh.” The older woman stroked her companion’s hair. “It’ll all be sorted darling, it’ll all be sorted. I got the two best on it. I have. Come now.” She threaded her arm through her companion’s. “Let’s get somewhere we can be a little more honest in our kisses, I need my pillow to start smelling like you again.”

The younger woman tucked herself into her companion’s side and nodded, smiling giddily.

 

* * *

 

“How fucking heavy was this guy?” Wyatt muttered as they carried Keynes’ body between them, wrapped in burlap. “Jesus H. Christ.”

“Need a little help with staying active?” Flynn replied, leading the way down the bridge until they could get a clear shot over the water.

“Fuck you, Flynn.”

 _I’d like to_ , Flynn thought.

“I didn’t think she was…” Wyatt cleared his throat. “I didn’t think she’d do that.”

“What, kill a man?” Flynn snorted. “You don’t know Lucy as well as you think you do.”

“And what, you know her so well?” Wyatt shot back.

Silence reigned as they continued along their path. They had to make sure they weren’t dumping this guy onto any boats passing underneath.

“I don’t… I just don’t want her to get mixed up in this if she doesn’t have to,” Wyatt muttered. “I don’t want her going to jail.”

“She won’t.”

Wyatt glanced at him. “You’re real… protective, you know that?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Wyatt shrugged. “Don’t ever tell anyone I said this, but it’s nice to not—not to call the shots.” He gave a short bark of laughter. “Maybe if I’d let Jess call the shots more we’d still be together.”

They heaved the body over the rail—no small feat—and released it, holding their breath for one, two, ten seconds…

Until they heard the distant _splash_ as it hit the river.

“Nice,” Wyatt commented. “You. Um. You’re good at this.”

“What, dumping bodies?”

“No, I meant—I was trying to compliment you.”

Flynn turned and looked at him. Wyatt looked rather soft like this, lit up only by the moon. “You need to work on your compliments.”

“I need to work on a lot when it comes to you. You turn everything I say sideways.”

“Do I?” Flynn asked, his voice softer and rougher at the same time, more so than he’d intended.

Wyatt looked up at him. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You make the whole world sideways.”

Flynn reached for him, or Wyatt leaned in, or both—and then Flynn was kissing him, short, soft, just to try, to taste.

Wyatt went limp for a moment, pressing in, pliant and oh, Flynn liked him like that, he liked him like that a lot—but then Wyatt yanked himself back. “We—we’re—no. No, no, no, we’d get—fuck no I’m not—I’m not that kind of—”

Flynn rolled his eyes. “We just dumped the body of a high-ranking police officer in the bay and we’re trying to expose the entire damn force while being in love with the same woman, I think our kissing is the least of our problems.”

Wyatt stared at him, mouth agape.

Well, he liked when Flynn called the shots? Flynn could call the shots.

He pulled Wyatt in. “We’re agreed on Lucy?”

“Yes.”

“We’re agreed on taking down these bastards?”

“Yes.”

“And you want this?”

Wyatt swallowed, and even in the pale, silvery moonlight, the world in black and white, Flynn could tell he was blushing. Wyatt looked away, down into the water, and then darted his gaze back up. “Yes.”

Flynn kissed him as soon as the word was out of Wyatt’s mouth, feverish this time, no holding back—and Wyatt gave back as good as he got.

Well. Looked like one good thing had come out of tonight.

 

* * *

 

Flynn put them up at his place for the night.

It wasn’t safe for Lucy to go back to her place, obviously, and they all doubted it was safe for Wyatt at his home, either.

When the two men came home safely from dumping the body, Lucy nearly collapsed all over again in relief.

Rufus, collateral damage in a fight that wasn’t even his own. Amy, missing and possibly hurt or worse. Baumgardner, apparently, Wyatt’s friend. She’d nearly lost Flynn.

When would it end?

She was curled up on the couch, a blanket around her, the journal in her lap when the front door opened.

Flynn stepped in first, wincing, and then Wyatt. “You need that shoulder seen to, just stuffing some bandages on it ain’t enough,” Wyatt said.

Lucy got up. “I’ll get hot water.”

She didn’t know how Wyatt felt, stitching up the second person of the night, but he kept darting his gaze over Flynn’s chest, Flynn’s face, and blushing, and Lucy was pretty sure she knew how he felt about Flynn in general.

She couldn’t blame him.

Outside the club, Wyatt had been stumbling his way through awkwardly asking after her and complimenting her singing, and Lucy liked him, in a sweet puppy way. She wouldn’t have minded bringing him to bed for a night or two.

But clearly, Flynn stirred the same fire in Wyatt that he was stirring in her.

Not that Flynn seemed to realize it. And why he even would, when he was an abrupt, rude, messy idiot who stuck his foot in his mouth, she didn’t know.

But he was helping her, and he was honest, and earnest, and the way he held her when she collapsed…

Wyatt finished stitching Flynn up and sat back, looking exhausted. Lucy dared to reach out and run a hand through his hair, and Wyatt listed into it like a plant seeking the sun. “Go wash up,” she said quietly. “You ought to get some rest.”

“You need rest too,” Wyatt mumbled.

“I will. Let me clean him up. Go on.”

Wyatt pushed up into her touch and she petted his hair gently a few times. Wyatt practically melted.

Lucy withdrew her hand, and Wyatt stumbled to his feet, giving a tired salute and going into the bathroom.

She turned and wet a washcloth, gently wiping away the blood from Flynn’s shoulder and starting to wrap a proper bandage around the stitched-up wound. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?” Flynn asked. “I knew there was danger when I took this job.”

“Rittenhouse—they want me, and the journal. Mother clearly isn’t comfortable with it existing anymore and with my… being outside the fold. I’ve brought you into this.”

“I was already in it. I hated Rittenhouse long before I lo—before I knew you.”

Lucy felt her heart flip over and struggled to keep her face from betraying her thoughts. “We thought we took every precaution. We should’ve just… changed our names and moved out of state. But I love this city and it was where we grew up and where our father lived and died and…”

Flynn caught her hand in his. “Hey. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. And why should anyone make you run? You stayed and that was brave of you. You’re incredibly brave, Lucy.”

It was the first time he’d said her first name, and it made a hot shiver run up her spine.

Lucy swallowed, struggling to hold his gaze when it was so dark and earnest and full of emotions she wasn’t sure she deserved. “I’m not all that much,” she managed to whisper. “I’m just a lounge singer.”

“You’re magic up on that stage,” Flynn replied.

“I thought I was pitchy?”

Flynn blushed—actually blushed—and dropped her hand. “Well, you didn’t seem comfortable with compliments.”

“I’m not. I’m not sure I… I deserve them.”

Flynn looked up at her, startled, his eyes wide. “But of course you do. I—I’ve been—I’ve watched your routine for months and you’re—” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. You say you two took precautions. You and Amy.”

Lucy stared at him. The change in subject startled her. “Um, yes, uh, we did. For example if… if one of us was going out alone, without anyone, we’d dress up as men. Pull our hair back, hat and coat, deepen our voices, men’s pants and shoes. Just in case, you know, to keep ourselves safe….”

Her voice trailed off as Flynn’s face went pale and his eyes glittered. “That’s it.”

“…what’s it?”

Flynn managed to sit up, wincing as it pulled at his stitches. Um, wow, okay, that was a lot of bare chest only an inch away from her. God he was huge.

“I know,” Flynn told her, taking her hands and grinning. “I know why Amy vanished.”

“…you do?”

Flynn nodded. “And the best part is, she’s not with Rittenhouse.”

Lucy gaped at him. She didn’t know how she knew, but she trusted him, she did, and if Amy was safe—if Amy was _okay_ —

Lucy grabbed Flynn’s face in her hands and kissed him.

Flynn went completely stiff, startled, and for a second it was rather like kissing a block of stone, and just about as pleasant. She was just about to pull away, in fact, when Flynn shifted, softened, tilted his head and began to kiss her back.

Oh, _yes_.

Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, kissed him over and over, chanting in her head _thank you, thank you, thank you_.

 

* * *

 

Wyatt emerged from the bathroom to find Lucy helping Flynn to stand up. “Whoa, careful!” he said, rushing over to help.

“He can’t sleep on the couch,” Lucy said. “We have to get him to bed.”

“Fair enough, but he’s a foot taller than you, ma’am.”

“I’m the same age as you, I think the ‘ma’am’ is unnecessary.”

“We have work to do tomorrow,” Flynn said, patiently interrupting the argument. “We figured out what happened with Amy and Baumgardner.”

Wyatt stared at him. “Wait. You. What?”

Flynn raised an eyebrow at him, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “There was no third man.”

Wyatt stared at Flynn. “Of course there was a third man—”

Flynn shook his head. “There was a third _person_. A person that Rufus _assumed_ was a man because of the deepened voice and the outfit. But the person’s face was never seen, their name never given, and Lucy just told me that she and Amy would dress as men when they went out just one of them.”

Oh. Oh holy shit. Wyatt stood up. “And if Amy was the one who got there first—”

“She might have seen who did it—”

“And knew she couldn’t trust the police—if it was the police, she might have seen it—”

“So she fled—”

“But to where?” Lucy asked, breathless.

Wyatt realized the three of them were all standing very close, a hair’s breadth apart, so close that he could kiss Flynn’s neck if he wanted, or the top of Lucy’s head.

They all stared at each other for a moment, and Wyatt wasn’t sure if the tension came just from wanting to figure out where Amy had gone, or from…

Like a woman flinging herself off a cliff, Lucy grabbed him and kissed him.

Wyatt flailed for a second, caught off-guard, his brain blaring _holy shit holy shit Lucy Preston is kissing me_ —and then is hands found purchase at her hips and holy fuck she was a good kisser—

Lucy pulled back. “I thought—you want him, don’t you?”

Flynn snorted in amusement and Wyatt felt his face heating up. “I—is it—am I really—”

“It’s all over your face,” Lucy noted.

Fucking hell.

“And I—I want—” Lucy looked hopefully up at Flynn. “So I thought if I—if you knew I was all right—we could—if you want us both?”

There was a voice in the back of Wyatt’s head screaming that he did not sleep with men, especially men he’d only known for one night, and especially, _especially_ not while also sleeping with the woman he’d had an insane crush on for at least a month.

But then again they might also all get shot in their beds and die tomorrow, thanks to Rittenhouse, so… that voice in the back of his head could shut the fuck up.

So when Flynn looked at Wyatt, Wyatt nodded.

Flynn looked over at Lucy again. He seemed to be in shock. “If you… are you really certain…”

“I am,” she whispered. “I am, I am, I am…”

Like he was afraid he might go to Hell for it, Flynn leaned down, and Lucy got up onto her tiptoes—and they kissed like they were dying.

Okay, um, goddamn, wow, that was—they were a very hot couple.

Lucy threaded her fingers in Flynn’s hair as he kissed down her neck, hoisting her up with his good arm—and then winced.

Wyatt stepped in, putting his hand on Flynn’s wrist. “I can… help if you want.”

“I think sex for you is off the table,” Lucy said, her voice sultry, her lips in a pout. Then she broke into a sly grin. “But come here. Wyatt, get his pants for me, would you sweetheart?”

Wyatt thrilled at the way she ordered him, the way she called him _sweetheart_ , the way she said his name. He carefully undid Flynn’s pants, knocked off balance when Flynn pulled him in and forced to grab onto Flynn’s good shoulder as Flynn kissed him.

He pushed Flynn’s pants to the floor, and then felt slim, nimble fingers at his own waist, Lucy’s mouth slowly kissing up his shoulder from behind. Her body brushed against his and—holy fuck.

Wyatt couldn’t see her, since she was standing behind him, but he was pretty damn sure she had just taken off her clothes and was naked now.

Judging by the wide-eyed, slack jawed look that Flynn now had, staring at her over Wyatt’s shoulder, Wyatt figured he’d guessed right.

“Why’d you stop?” Lucy whispered, her voice right in his ear.

Wyatt gasped as Flynn kissed him again, Lucy’s mouth caressing the curve of his jaw, his neck, catching on the soft skin just behind his ear. Flynn got his good arm around Wyatt’s waist and yanked him in, finally getting Wyatt’s pants down the rest of the way with Lucy’s help and rolling their hips together.

Fucking hell. Wyatt had never—he liked it when he touched his cock, sure, he knew what that felt like, but feeling Flynn’s cock sliding against his, the pressure and touch and tease—

He whimpered, trying to keep up, but it was a new feeling, and he was overwhelmed—and then Lucy reached around, wrapping a hand around them both, and fuck, holy— _fuck_.

Flynn made a noise, both desperate and possibly pained, and Lucy pulled away. “Let’s get you both into bed,” she ordered.

Wyatt stripped off his shirt and the rest of his clothes as Lucy curled her finger at Flynn, playfully beckoning him closer. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to get off on fucking or being fucked by one of them, or if he just wanted to watch. Flynn kissed Lucy and Wyatt knew, watching her, how he himself looked when Flynn kissed him—melting but also pushing back, greedy, wanting more.

Lucy—he’d wanted her on a slow burn for ages. But Flynn was a wildfire. No slow simmer until the pot boiled over. It was just consuming, and being consumed, and ravaging, and being ravaged.

Lucy pressed Flynn down onto the bed. “Stay right here,” she cooed, pressing a final kiss to his sternum before turning to Wyatt.

“How do you want me?” he asked, trying for teasing but with far too much naked truth and need behind it.

Maybe in the morning he’d feel ashamed, but right now it was raining outside, it was night, Jess was gone and so was Amy and Dave was dead and so was Keynes and everything was topsy turvy and nothing outside this apartment even felt real anymore. It was just Lucy and Flynn, two bright spots of shocking color in a world of black and white and shadow.

“Just like this,” Lucy promised, pulling him on top of her.

Flynn kissed her and tugged at her hair, murmuring words in English and Croatian as Wyatt slowly worked her open. Lucy gasped out instructions, _there_ and _harder_ and _a little more_ until he got the angle that had her eyes flying wide open and her bright red nails clawing at his scalp.

“I’m going to break both your backs,” Lucy murmured, drawing Wyatt to her. “Just you wait until that wound’s healed.”

“I’m counting on it,” Flynn replied, and then his hand was at the small of Wyatt’s back and they were both kissing him, kissing him dizzy, and he was inside her and he might have been on top at least to start but Lucy was clearly fucking him and not the other way around, hooking her limbs around him and instructing him and guiding him as Flynn watched and touched and drank them in.

He didn’t want to come before she did, he really didn’t, but Lucy wouldn’t let him pull out and she wouldn’t let him slow down. “I want to feel you, go ahead, it’s all right,” she gasped, and Wyatt couldn’t resist, he was lost, drowning in both of them, Flynn’s hand at his ass and Flynn’s mouth at his throat and Lucy, Lucy, Lucy all around him—

Lucy generously petted him through his orgasm, kissing all over his face. “Very good,” she cooed, and oh, he really liked praise and being ordered around a lot more than he’d thought he did. She glanced over at Flynn. “Would it hurt your shoulder too much if you…”

Before she could even finish the sentence, Flynn was sinking to his knees, spreading her legs, licking into her.

Wyatt shuddered as he realized how filthy, how depraved it all would look to the casual bystander. Flynn licking at Lucy as she shuddered and mewled, his mouth right at the spot where Wyatt had been fucking into her moments before, that same mouth that had just been kissing Wyatt and caressing his skin and whispering filth into his ear about all the ways Flynn was going to fuck him.

It was against every rule that his father, that society, that the police force had laid out for him. He should be freaking out. Perhaps it was pure shock that he wasn’t.

But somehow… it all felt more right, more natural, than anything else he’d felt or done in years. Perhaps since he’d dumped his dad’s goddamn Chevy in the drink.

Wyatt reached out with his hands and his mouth, unwilling to be someone just sitting back and watching the proceedings, and got both on Lucy’s breasts. She whimpered, holding onto him and Flynn each with one hand, her head thrown back and her lips parted and slick and red as she gasped her way to orgasm.

Flynn looked obscenely pleased with himself, sitting up and wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand as he smirked down at Lucy, who was shaking.

That just wouldn’t do.

In a fit of—boldness, or stupid courage, or what the hell ever—Wyatt leaned down and took Flynn’s cock in his mouth.

“Jesus!” Flynn swore violently, and Wyatt could feel Flynn’s arms windmilling as he desperately tried to regain his balance and his sanity, before he felt Flynn jerk—the stitches making themselves known—and Wyatt felt a hand hovering over his head, tentative, unsure.

He had never done this before. To nobody’s surprise, Wyatt was sure. But Jess had done it to him. He knew what he liked. He just had to try and imitate it.

It was heavier, and thicker, than he’d imagined. He was drooling like an idiot and it was harder to be dexterous with his lips and tongue than he’d thought. But Flynn was murmuring encouraging words and grunting in satisfaction every so often, and Wyatt kept getting those bursts of salty precome on his tongue, so he figured, he couldn’t be doing too badly, right?

Lucy chuckled, and he felt her tugging at his hair, gently pulling him back. “Not bad,” she told him. “We’ll work on it.”

Then she swallowed Flynn down and Wyatt’s eyes got wide as he watched her work, as she slowly, methodically, licked and sucked until Flynn was hitching his hips up and growling and groaning.

Clearly, Wyatt had a lot to learn. He was determined to learn it all, though. He wanted these people, wanted this, and he wanted to be able to be a full participant.

He pushed himself up, holding Flynn so that Flynn couldn’t pop the stitches by thrashing, and kissed him—God only knew how thin these apartment walls were.

Flynn shuddered and came silently, his chest heaving, his eyes staring, glazed, out into nothingness.

God, Wyatt wanted him to fuck him next time.

Lucy sat up, now the one wiping her mouth, and raised an eyebrow. “I hope I pass muster?” she asked, glancing from one to the other.

For some reason, despite her bravado, Wyatt thought he detected genuine worry that she hadn’t.

“Of course you did,” he told her, since Flynn didn’t look like he could even speak. “You were perfect.”

Lucy blinked, startled, then smiled shyly.

This entire business was a mess, but it got him here, so Wyatt supposed—he could be a little grateful for it.

 

* * *

 

Lucy gratefully accepted the coffee that Flynn gave her. Whatever stumbling it might have taken for them to get here in regards to Flynn’s flirting, once they had gotten there, it seemed that Flynn was remarkably soft and gentle. She would never have expected it, but it… it made something spark in her that she’d thought no longer existed.

Flynn started a fire in her, and she wanted to burn.

“Thanks,” Wyatt said beside her, taking the coffee that Flynn offered him.

Flynn slid back into bed, reaching out to play with the strands of Lucy’s hair. She had never… men wanted her, but they didn’t… not like…

“You all right?” Flynn asked, his voice rough but soft at the same time, somehow.

Lucy sipped at her coffee, unsure of what to say.

“Don’t worry,” Flynn added. “You were a gentle and responsive lover.”

Wyatt choked on his coffee and nearly spewed it all over the bedsheets.

Lucy started laughing, so hard she nearly snorted coffee up her nose. Flynn grinned at her, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, and oh God that smile changed his entire face, made him look young and soft and delightful, and it tugged fiercely at her heart.

“I’m sorry,” she managed, once her laughter had died down. “I’m just not used to… this.”

“What, two men? Me neither,” Wyatt said, his cheeks going pink.

“And yet you managed to keep up just fine,” Flynn said.

Wyatt glared at him, and Flynn leaned across Lucy so that he could kiss Wyatt softly. Wyatt melted into the kiss at once, and Lucy couldn’t blame him in the slightest.

“I meant…” She felt naked. Well, she was naked, they all were, but not like that. She felt exposed. Vulnerable. Small. “Men don’t really. Growing up they wanted me for my father’s money and connections. Then Mother tried to set me up with a couple so I could make a good marriage, and then all men saw was the… the lounge singer, the femme fatale, I think is the term. Nobody ever just liked… me.”

Wyatt and Flynn stared at her. Well, gaped was probably a better word for it. “But you’re…” Wyatt glanced at Flynn, then kept going. “Lucy, you—I’ve been coming to see you forever now, and it’s not because you show a little leg. I’m not saying that I know you or anything but… I like to think I know you enough to say I fell for what was underneath and not just, y’know.” Wyatt waved his hand at her.

“So you’ve never…” Flynn looked appalled. “Never had anyone?”

“I mean, one night stands, plenty. I had a few flings with women but nothing serious. I already had to be careful, because of Mom, I didn’t want end up in the papers over my sexuality on top of all that.”

“Are we a… fling?” Wyatt asked, sounding very young and hurt.

Lucy looked at him, at the sad puppy look on his face. She reached up, lightly stroking his cheek, feeling the perpetual stubble there, and then looked at Flynn.

Flynn’s face was carefully neutral, guarded. Like he expected her to say yes, this was just a one time thing, that she didn’t want any part of it after.

But she did, she did, she _did_.

She took Flynn’s chin in her hand and tilted his face up. “No,” she whispered. “No, you’re not.”

Flynn looked at her, their eyes locking, and she saw, she _saw_ the hope springing into his face, and what was she supposed to do with that? How could she possibly be worthy of that?

She didn’t know, and she almost didn’t care. She just selfishly wanted to hold onto it.

Lucy kissed him, coffee-flavored kisses, and then kissed Wyatt, and then Flynn again, just because she could.

 

* * *

 

Flynn gently carded his hand through Lucy’s hair as she settled back against his chest and Wyatt—who downed his coffee quickly—lay sprawled in their laps.

“If it’s any consolation,” Wyatt said, looking up at Lucy, “I haven’t ever been with anyone besides Jess.”

“I feel so much better about not fucking you now,” Flynn blurted out as cold relief washed through him.

And here he’d been upset because his shoulder made it impossible to do as much as he wanted, to either of his partners. But if Wyatt hadn’t been with a man before… they’d have to go a lot more slowly than Flynn had secretly planned.

No worries. But thank God he knew now.

Wyatt flipped him off. “We knew each other since we were kids. Wrapped up in each other. Sometimes in a bad way, sometimes in a good way.” He paused. “I don’t understand why she just up and disappeared on me.”

“Did she say… anything at all?” Lucy asked.

Wyatt shook his head. “Jess doesn’t always tell me right away what she’s going to do, she just does it and then tells me afterwards. I think after the whole thing with my dad and how fucked up jealous I could get she figured it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

“Your dad?”

Wyatt swallowed. “My dad was a real fucker. Beat me, scared the shit out of me. When we were in high school I drove his car into the lake. Ran away from home, started running moonshine to make ends meet. My dad was on the warpath, ready to tar and feather me for it, and Jess—Jess took matters into her own hands.

“She got a bottle of top shelf whiskey, added a secret ingredient, took it to my dad and pretended to plead with him to, y’know, go easy on me. The old man loved his drink and downed half the bottle before the poison kicked in.” Wyatt idly tangled his fingers with Flynn’s, running the pads of them over Flynn’s knuckles, like he was trying to understand the shape of them and how their hands could interlock. “She had her own sense of… right and wrong. I ran from trouble, she’d run to it. It’s why she was such a good reporter.”

Flynn frowned, the puzzle pieces finally coming together for him. “Jessica Logan. J. Logan, from the papers. She always reported on the police affairs.”

“Yeah. Damn good at it too but y’know the people don’t want to hear about a woman reporter all that much. She and her friend Kate, K. Drummond, that’s why they only have the initial at the beginning.” Wyatt paused. “I’m the coward. I was scared of my dad so I ran. I was scared of losing Jess so I was a jealous bastard. But Jess, she doesn’t run. So why she… she just served me with papers and ran to fuckin’ South America…”

Flynn froze. So did Lucy.

“South America?” Lucy’s voice was careful. “Where in South America?”

“São Paulo.”

Lucy sat up, nearly knocking Wyatt off the bed. “Wyatt. Wyatt that’s where my journal came from, someone sent it to Flynn from São Paulo.”

“Jess would maybe know about Flynn, I think she covered your story when it broke,” Wyatt said. “Wait, are you saying Jess found out about Rittenhouse?”

“But how’d she get the journal?” Flynn asked.

“Amy,” Lucy breathed. “Amy said she had a friend in the papers, a friend who would help her expose Rittenhouse if we wanted—”

“Amy fled to São Paulo,” Flynn said. “She fled to Jess.”

“Jess fled so Rittenhouse couldn’t get her, and she sent you the journal that Amy gave her since she knew you’d go after Rittenhouse, you had nothing to lose. And maybe… so you’d protect Lucy, for Amy,” Wyatt theorized. “Amy sees who murdered Dave, or maybe even heard his last words. She knows Jess has already fled to São Paulo, so she books a ticket and flees there too. She can’t tell Lucy, there’s no time.”

“But Jess has sent Flynn the journal, so Amy hopes that I will be safe and taken care of and they’ll be able to start working to expose Rittenhouse before Rittenhouse realizes that Flynn’s onto them,” Lucy finished.

Flynn grinned at them both. “Genius.”

“Now what do we do?” Wyatt asked. “Now that we know?”

Flynn could feel his grin turning sharp. “We go on the attack.”

 

* * *

 

Lucy tried not to hold her breath as she walked up the street to her old home. Her childhood home.

It was in a much nicer district than where she lived now. But she felt more comfortable there than she ever had in this place. Everything felt so much more… artificial and sanitized here. Where she lived now there was always hustle and bustle, there was life. Here, there was no one but a redheaded woman pushing a pram at the end of the street.

Going up the steps, she rang the doorbell. She had a key, but she wasn’t sure if her mother had changed the locks since she and Amy had left home.

Flynn was on his way to see Cahill, journal in hand. Wyatt was sending a telegram to São Paulo.

She had lived in the shadow of her mother and Rittenhouse, her family legacy, for long enough. It was time to end it.

No answer for the doorbell. Lucy rang it again, just to be certain, then tried her key.

It still fit the lock. How convenient.

Inside, the house looked the same as she remembered. No servants about, but then, Carol had no need for many now that her husband was dead and her two daughters were gone. Her days of entertaining people were over and she could always hire temporary staff for a party.

“Mother?” Lucy called.

She walked down the hall. Carol would most likely be in the study.

“Mother? You in here?” Perhaps she was out to lunch?

Lucy stepped into the study—and clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her instinctive scream.

Carol Preston lay slumped in her chair, a bullet wound in her chest.

Lucy dropped her purse and hurried over to her. Carol was barely breathing, her eyes nothing more than slits. “Mother, Mother—”

“Lucy.” The word clearly caused Carol pain to speak. She tried to raise a hand up, to caress Lucy’s cheek, but it fell. Lucy caught it, held it. “I’m sorry. I wish…”

_I wish I had taken better care of you? I wish I had listened to you?_

“…I wish I had spoken to you of Rittenhouse sooner,” Carol whispered. “You… deserve… this… not her… not… Emma… your birthright…”

The light in Carol’s eyes faded, and her hand went heavy and limp in Lucy’s fingers.

Lucy dropped her mother’s hand, stepping back in horror.

Her mother’s last words, and they were about how she hadn’t indoctrinated her daughter into her cult soon enough.

Lucy picked up her purse, making sure her pistol was inside and loaded. She was angry, angry at her mother, disappointed in her mother, but also—

It was still her mother.

The redhead, at the end of the block, with the pram. Carol’s last words.

Lucy knew who’d done this.

She walked out of the house, heels clicking on the floor, and locked it behind her, careful not to leave any fingermarks anywhere.

Emma Whitmore wasn’t going to see another sunrise. Not if Lucy had anything to say about it.

 

* * *

 

Flynn didn’t go to Cahill right away.

First, he stopped by the Lifeboat Lounge.

Jiya was sitting up in one of the booths, doing paperwork. “They’ve got you working off the clock now?” Flynn asked.

“Mason needed help with his accounting,” Jiya replied, scribbling furiously. “I’m good with numbers and he’s got enough on his plate and Rufus is still down for the count so…”

“Mmm. Do you remember telling me how Mason and Rufus would invent things on the weekends?”

“Yeah. They could get a lot of patents, probably, if they were white. I know Mason tries but he’s got enough on his plate, he doesn’t need to try and push for patents on top of it. So they just don’t really tell anyone and just do whatever they want in the back room. God knows how they haven’t blown it up yet.”

“Do you know if they’ve invented anything that could… help someone record something, discreetly? Like a small recording device that I could hide on my person?”

Jiya frowned. “Maybe. Let me check.”

She led him into the back room, which was absolutely filled with junk and machines of all kinds. Flynn inspected one that looked like a large hollowed out round metal ball.

“Don’t touch that,” Jiya warned.

Flynn stepped back, holding his hands up into the air.

“It’s supposed to be some kind of device that lets you see through time,” Jiya said. “Actually, y’know what, don’t touch anything in here.”

She searched around in some drawers, finally pulling out a pair of shoes. “There’s a recording device hidden in these. Wear them, and they’ll record whatever you want.”

Flynn nodded, taking the shoes. “I hope Mason has big feet.”

“Those are Rufus’s shoes. And yes.” Jiya smirked. “Yes he does.”

Flynn pointed at her. “I did not need to know that.”

“You asked!”

“Not about _that_!”

Jiya handed him the shoes. “Just wear these.” She paused. “What do you need them for, anyway?”

“I’m going to have a meeting with the commissioner.”

Jiya frowned at him as Flynn changed his shoes. “You’re not just going to waltz into city hall and demand an audience.”

“Of course not,” Flynn told her.

And he didn’t.

He waltzed right into city hall, but he continued up until he got to Cahill’s office. He certainly didn’t bother to wait and demand an audience.

Benjamin Cahill stood up in alarm as Flynn entered. Flynn held up a hand. “Now, before you go calling security,” he drawled, “I suggest you take a look at this.”

He tossed Lucy’s journal onto Cahill’s desk.

Cahill eyed it warily, then flipped open the journal.

His face went fantastically pale.

Flynn ran a hand through his hair and winked at Cahill. “Quite the sordid affair, wouldn’t you say? Lots of details you don’t want getting out.”

Cahill made to draw the journal towards him, but Flynn snatched it back. “Ah, ah, ah. I’m not giving this for free.”

Cahill glared at him. “You hate us. You hate all that we stand for. Just because we were gracious enough to let you live instead of killing you with your… daughter, was it? A little girl?”

Anger flashed in Flynn, white hot, blinding, immolating. “Iris,” he hissed. “Her name. Was Iris.”

“We could have killed you with her but we chose to let you live. That can change at any moment. I wouldn’t play with our fire, if I were you, Mr. Flynn.”

“I’ve always liked to play with fire,” Flynn replied, baring his teeth. “You know what I have. You know what it’s worth. Pay up, or I’ll publish.”

“Nobody will publish this.”

“How sure are you of that?”

Cahill stared at him for a long moment. “What’s your price?” he asked at last.

“Glad you’ve decided to play ball.”

“You’re bold. I like that. So yes, I’m choosing to… play ball.”

“I want safe passage out of here,” Flynn said. “I want to get out of this city, and I don’t want Rittenhouse to follow me. And I’d like… a small fund so that I can start over in a new city.”

Cahill’s mouth twisted like he’d just tasted a lemon. “Come back here tomorrow. I need a day to discuss things with the others. Things are… unsettled, in our organization at the moment.”

“Fair enough. Don’t think that I won’t know if there’s any funny business about. You won’t be able to dump my body in the river so easily. Or gun me down outside a nightclub, as the case might be.”

Cahill snorted. “Oh, come now. You’re not stuck on that poor bastard, are you?”

“I’m a little upset, as a former cop. There are too few good people left in the force. He was one of them, or so I hear.”

“He wasn’t able to keep his ears shut, is what he was. I’m sure you understand.”

“Blaming it on the Chinese, though? Not very original.”

“We were in a rush, what can I say?” Cahill smirked at him. It was like a fish trying to smile. “Tomorrow at five, then, end of the work day?”

“Works for me.” Flynn tucked the journal back into his jacket. “Good afternoon, Commissioner.”

He gave a sarcastic bow and walked out, trying not to smirk too much. He had Cahill on recording admitting to arranging the murder of a cop, and the attempted murder of another cop and that cop’s family.

Perfect.

 

* * *

 

Wyatt waited at the telegraph office for the reply from Jess and Amy. It had taken all morning and several dollars to send enough telegrams to get the information he needed and get the message to the right women.

Fortunately, Jess tended to make herself known no matter what city she was in, and apparently so did Amy. Sending telegrams to the embassy asking about a dynamite blonde with a habit of asking nosy questions had gotten him Jess’s hotel room number.

He sent the telegram to Jess and waited.

A few hours later the reply came in:

_Both willing to testify. Stop. If you guarantee will go to court. Stop. Not risking Amy’s life. Stop._

Wyatt replied:

_Can guarantee. Stop. Do you love her. Stop._

The reply was instant.

_Yes. Stop._

Well. That was… something.

 

* * *

 

If Emma was tying up loose ends, then Lucy knew where she would go next.

She hurried back to the Lifeboat. Rufus lived above the lounge, with Mason in his apartment—it was large enough that it took up the entire second floor, because Mason didn’t grasp the concept of certain things, one of which was ‘economizing’.

The side door to the lounge was open.

Lucy drew out her pistol and ventured inside.

It was dark—hard to see—and she found it odd that a nightclub was the opposite of how the rest of the world ran. At night, when most places were closed and shuttered, it was lit up. And during the day, when the rest of the world drank in sunshine, the nightclub was dark as a tomb.

It gave her shivers.

Lucy crept up the back stairs, gun at the ready. “Rufus?” she whispered.

The door to the apartment was slightly ajar. Lucy reached for it—

—and was thrown back as the door was shouldered open by a whirlwind, and Emma dashed down the stairs.

Lucy stuck her head in the door. “Rufus!”

“He’s fine!” It was Jiya. “Get after her!”

Lucy rushed down the stairs after Emma, out to the alley—only to get smashed in the face as she exited.

 

* * *

 

Flynn got back to the lounge, journal in his pocket, ready to go in and check on everyone—wait.

Was that…

It sounded like a scuffle, and yelling, and—

He knew that voice. “Lucy!”

He ran into the alley, heart racing. Lucy was on the ground, Emma over her, the two of them wailing on each other like there was no tomorrow.

Flynn drew his gun without a second thought. He’d trusted Emma, once upon a time, had told her about Rittenhouse, about what he was finding, and she’d betrayed him. Now she was making a play for leadership and determined to take everyone else down with her, it seemed.

Well, she wouldn’t get Lucy.

Emma looked up, arm cocked back for a punch—

Flynn fired.

 

* * *

 

Wyatt was halfway down the street, running late to meet the others at the lounge, when he heard the shot.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

He broke out into a run. What had gone wrong? Who was it? Had Cahill sent someone to follow Flynn back, had Lucy’s mother decided to take her daughter by force—

He got to the club, but there didn’t seem to be anyone inside, no one in front…

The alley!

He rounded the corner—

And saw Flynn on his knees, cradling a small, brunette body.

_No._

“Lucy!” The word was ripped out of him. He sprinted, moving faster than he’d thought possible. No, not Lucy, please, _please_ not Lucy—

He dropped to his knees and saw that Flynn was holding a battered, crying, furious, but very alive Lucy Preston.

“Oh thank fuck,” Wyatt burst out. He took her hand, kissing her knuckles, her inner wrist, her palm. “Fuck, Lucy, I thought—I thought—”

“It’s okay,” Flynn soothed. “It’s taken care of.”

Wyatt looked over and saw the body of Emma Whitmore lying not ten feet away. Shot in the head.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. He looked at Flynn, and Flynn nodded, answering Wyatt’s unspoken question.

Wyatt leaned in, resting his forehead against Flynn’s. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispered.

Flynn nudged Wyatt until Wyatt looked up at him and Flynn could kiss his cheek, quickly, even now—even now—having to be careful who saw, who might walk by.

“The thought of her—of either of you—” Wyatt whispered.

“I know.” Flynn caught his eye. “I know.”

Lucy finally took hold of Wyatt’s hand properly and squeezed back.

 

* * *

 

Lucy Preston had just testified in court that day, but nobody would’ve known it from the smirk on her face as she stepped up to the microphone.

Amy waited in the wings—or rather sat in Jess’s lap in the wings, whispering back and forth and rubbing their noses together, as Lucy opened with a solo song.

“We’re going to start with a fun one tonight,” Lucy said, and struck up the band.

_That old black magic has me in its spell_

_That old black magic that you weave so well…_

She tried not to sing the entire song to the two men standing in the back, but it was hard not to, and she couldn’t resist throwing a wink or two their way.

_I’m in a spin,_

_I’m loving that spin I’m in,_

_I’m under that old black magic called…_

_Love!_

Regulars noted that Miss Preston had more energy than in the past few weeks, and those who’d read the papers might have a guess as to why. Despite attempts to keep her and Amy’s names out of the press, it was next to impossible when they were testifying in the case that had half the San Francisco police force under arrest.

That morning there’d been the verdict: Guilty.

And Lucy—Lucy felt like she was flying.

For once, the dreary, drizzling rain of the city didn’t bother her as Wyatt helped her into her coat after the night was over. “I thought you might not make it,” she mentioned. Business was picking up for Flynn given his role in the whole case, and Wyatt had quit the force to join him as a partner to help handle the load.

Jiya was, understandably, more than happy to work as Mason’s accountant full time so that she didn’t have to sit through Wyatt making puppy eyes at Flynn all day.

“And miss you?” Flynn asked, offering his arm. Lucy took it, curling into his side, feeling his warmth. “Never, _cher_.”

They stepped out into the mist. To an observer, they probably made quite an image, three well-dressed and handsome people strolling into the rolling rain of the city, vanishing like smoke.

But to Lucy, they were simply walking home. To their apartment with the warm bed, and the battered paperback books, and the coffee mugs in the sink, and the knitted rug that Michelle had made for them as a housewarming present. To kick off her heels and turn on the radio and dance in the living room, alone and with Flynn and with Wyatt, to sit back and watch them dance together, to curl up with them and fall asleep to the sound of rain, and then to wake up to kisses all over and Flynn doing the crossword and Wyatt humming off-key and start it all over again.

They were walking home to be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> "Mali tigriću" means 'little tiger' in Croatian.


End file.
